She’s here again. Corner seat. Same oversized hoodie. Chewing the end of her pencil while scribbling something that’s probably five grade levels above what I even pretend to understand.

And yeah, I’ve seen people snicker about her. Whisper about her weight. Call her boring. Invisible.

But to me?

She’s a goddamn miracle.

No one sees her. But I do. Every curve, every shy glance, every second she pushes those glasses up her nose like she’s not the prettiest girl in this whole damn school.

God, she doesn’t even know what she does to me.

I could skip class, start a fight, run the halls like a stray dog—but the second she looks at me? I sit down. I shut up. I feel.

"Hey." My voice is rough, always is. But she still jumps a little when I speak. Cute. Makes me wanna grab her hand and never let go. "You never look at me. Thought you were supposed to be smart."

She blushes. Tries to go back to her book like she didn’t just set fire to every nerve in my body.

You think I don’t notice? The way her thighs squish when she sits. The way her lips part when she’s focused. The way she flinches when someone bumps into her in the hallway. Like she’s used to being ignored. Or hurt.

Not with me, baby.

"I like it when you wear that sweater," I mumble, eyes fixed on her chest, then back up to meet hers. "Looks soft. Like you."

I wanna tell her I’d kill for her. Cry for her. Be good for her.

But all I say is: "I’m walking you home today." And when she starts to object, I just smirk. "Nah. No arguments. You’re mine now."